Consecrated Ground
by ariades
Summary: Seeley Booth's trigger finger still itches.
1. Chapter 1

**TITLE**: Consecrated Ground  
**SUMMARY**: Glimpse into the decline of a partnership and the events leading up Agent Booth being temporarily replaced with Agent Sullivan and forced into therapy.  
**RATING/SPOILERS**: T to be safe – although I think it's much milder. Vague reference to some events of for the next two episodes.  
**DISCLAIMER**: Not mine.  
**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: Italics Flashback. It's a short start but I thought an intriguing subject – I hope there's some interest!

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Peering down the edge of a grave, Seely Booth's trigger finger itches.

In the unforgiving D.C. winter, his blue collar stands out in defiance, contrasting with the muted tones of the somber mourners. Caroline approaches him slowly, fist full of consecrated earth, and places it gently in his palm. She looks at him with the wide eyes of a naive girl, thanking him for having faith in the man he _could_ have been. Biting back a smirk at her obliviousness, he drops the dirt on the casket and turns away, self-satisfied.

Howard Epps is the first man he's killed and buried.

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The last time she saw him, he was sitting in a corner chair, head in his hands, looking like a boy waiting to be called into the Principal's office. She walked past him without acknowledging his presence and didn't stop until her hand rested on her car door.

He stood, looking at her, keeping a safe distance. Her eyes flashed in anger as she bit out, 'I will never lie for you again."

He wants to tell her that he never asked her to in the first place - that he never wanted to compromise her integrity - but she's gone before he can properly form the words.

Instead, he goes home with a harsh reprimand and an overwhelming desire to wash his hands until they're clean.

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_He tells him that he's disappointed that Dr. Brennan wasn't the one to track him down._

_Booth's standing no more than fifteen feet away from Howard Epps and his palms are sweating._

_"I'm dying to know what happened to Dr. Brennan and her scientists - she keeps me up at night. But I'll have a long time to think about her, back in jail. Tell your son that I'm sorry I missed him." the haggard man rattles off; glowing as the gun trained on him begins to shake._

_"You're not getting off that easy this time Howie..."_

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It wasn't a well-attended funeral.

This fact doesn't surprise her, nor does his attendance. She hasn't seen him in three days - long enough for her anger to dissipate and for her to realize that he's on forced leave. Watching him drop a handful of earth over the grave, her sense of morality is inflamed briefly. She recognizes his need to assure himself that Epps is never coming back - she almost understands it.

But she hasn't come for his reason.

He catches her gaze and begins to walk towards her, slow, steady and somewhat determined. He meets her beneath a tree and for a second it's almost routine - funerals at the conclusions of cases - the illusion would be complete had they both been wearing black.

"It was broad daylight." she says quietly, eyes boring into the ground as the first hints of rain begin to fall. "He was unarmed."

"I know."

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tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

**TITLE**: Consecrated Ground

**SUMMARY**: A glimpse into the decline of a partnership and the events leading up Agent Booth being temporarily replaced with Agent Sullivan and forced into therapy.

**RATING/SPOILERS**: T to be safe – although I think it's much milder. Vague reference to some events of for the next two episodes.

**DISCLAIMER**: Not mine.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: Italics Flashback. It's a short start but I thought an intriguing subject.

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She must be feeling guilty, because she offers him a ride home. That or she pities him. Either way, he finds the idea upsetting and doesn't even consider it.

The Bureau took the SUV along with his gun and as Cullen put them both in the top drawer of his desk he gave the young agent a stern look and clipped warning.

"She may have vouched for you – but I know better."

As long as he was a desk jockey, he had no need for the car – or the gun.

Looking down at his new suit, bought and tailored for the occasion, he idly wishes he had spent the money on a down payment for a vehicle as he flips open his cellular and orders a taxi while she drives away.

Ten minutes later he slips into the backseat of a Diamond cab and asks to be taken home.

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_His eyes are frantic as they scan up and down the corridors of Washington Hospital. Despite the O2 signs, his weapon is drawn and uncocked, giving him a sense of control in a situation where he has been utterly powerless. She looks at him expectantly, grabbing his arm in an attempt to hold him back and telling him with her eyes that he is needed here._

_He hands a battered Dr. Brennan – who assures him that the suspect couldn't have gotten far in his condition – the spare pistol that he keeps attached to his calf._

"_Stay here Bones," he growls, leaving no room for argument or response, and stalks down the hall, following an irregular trail of blood._

_Clutching the firearm, she knows back up is on the way – she also knows that Booth will not hesitate to take out his man. Ignoring his warning, she shoves the gun into the artist's hands, leaving her wide-eyed and worried, and breaks for the stairwell – running straight for the top._

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Sitting on a well-worn couch, Dr. Brennan gently fingers an official looking document in her hand while mentally crossing off 'Seely Booth' from the short list of people who have never let her down.

Feet crossed beneath her, she studies the memo as if it was an artifact written in an alien language. Running her eyes down the page one last time, she folds it in half and sighs – dropping gracelessly into a supine position and propping the note over her eyes. She can't decide if she's angry or hurt or disappointed – or all three – so she opts to focus on her breathing and mentally regroup.

Toying with the oversized beads of a characteristic necklace, long legs crossed at the ankles and right foot bouncing up and down in unease, she stares at her eyelids and counts to ten. Her head lolls to the side and she eyes her cell – arms lengths away – and contemplates calling him, just to see if he's ok. Looking at the LCD display, the previous events come back to her once again.

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"Dr. Brennan, they're ready for you."

Uncrossing her legs, the anthropologist stands, self-consciously smoothing her skirt and brushing the hair away from her tired eyes. As she walks towards the door, Booth's head snaps up and he grabs her forearm, wrinkled sleeves and dark bags under his eyes. She looks at his hand, still tinted a light red, as if they were alien to her, and pulls her arm away.

She smells of gunpowder and something indescribable which puts the young agent, who escorts her into a conference room, at ill ease.

Taking carefully measured steps, she approaches the long desk and takes a seat in the middle of the room – on display for five stern faced big wigs.

"Dr. Brennan, I'm sorry about the wait – we all know you must be exhausted." The one female on the panel eyes her sympathetically, no doubt feeling some sort of comradery with the young anthropologist based on a shared gender – a feeling Dr. Brennan does not reciprocate.

"This is a high-profile case, I understand your need to take swift action." Nodding in agreement they ask her to recount the moments leading up to the death of Howard Epps.

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He's standing at her office door, wondering how he ended up at the Jeffersonian. The silence of the lab unnerved him as he passed empty workstations, reminders of the recent tragedies. Steeling himself, he opens the door with his right hand, still dusty from the funeral, and finds her in a very un-Brennan position; sitting on the couch, her back to him and her chin resting on one knee.

"Hey," she mutters softly, continuing to stare in the general direction of her desk, forcing Booth to walk around her to catch her attention. Taking a seat beside her, she's close enough to touch him and he almost wishes she would, but that's a desire he's buried so deep it's almost as unrecognizable as the paper she reaches for, offering it to him with a shaky hand. He stares dumbly at her trembling, trying to reconcile this vulnerable image of a woman he once though was a firmly rooted as the trees that lined the yard of his childhood home in the suburbs of Philadelphia.

"How long?" she asks, her eyes on the floor, the table and finally looking up to regard him.

"A few weeks," he says while stretching towards the table, sliding the paper along its surface until it reaches the center.

She nods, rising from the couch, taking deep breathes and crossing her arms. "Agent Tim Sullivan," she says aloud, her words somehow making it more real. "I wish you would have told me." It comes as an afterthought and she sighs, tired of the heavy atmosphere that seems to follow her everywhere she goes.

"Maybe this one will give me a gun." She muses out loud, shooting him a crooked smile, which is met with his scoff but it seems so pathetic she wishes that she had kept her mouth shut.

His eyes are glued to the wall and his back is hunched forward – he feels something soft against his side, taking his hand.

"I'm sorry," she apologises simply, her fingers sliding into his, "Let me take you home."

This time, he lets her.

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tbc

Next – conclusions. R&R, please!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Consecrated Ground

**Summary:** A glimpse into the decline of a partnership and the events leading up to Agent Booth being replaced by Agent Sullivan (as well as being forced into therapy).

**Ratings/Spoilers:** A character says a bad word – twice – in this chapter, although it's not that bad of a word. T to be safe – although I think it's much milder. There are references to some events for the next few episodes.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Author's Note:** Italics are for flashbacks to one particular event. I thought this was an intriguing subject – I hope you all agree.

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Nine years ago, Sam Cullen took a risk.

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The soon-to-be Deputy Director eyed the background check, sitting across a large oak desk adorned with awards and personal affects, pausing to ask how long the hopeful recruit had been in Gamblers Anonymous.

"Sir, about six months, sir," he answered, obediently, if not a bit too loud. Looking over the man carefully, Sam noted his closely shorn hair and the tense way he held his shoulders.

"You're not a Ranger anymore – no need for all the pomp and circumstance," the young man nodded but his demeanor remained unchanged. "Impressive service record, graduated at the head of your class at the academy. Although your personal record – anger management, gambling issues, reckless behavior," he listed off the short list, gauging the young man's reactions as the charges were read against him.

"Considering the nature of the cases, and the stresses of this unit – how do I know you can handle this job?" The applicant eyed him wearily – unsure if the question was rhetorical or literal. He had heard from his friends at the academy that Sam Cullen was a hard man, facts and actions, uninterested in excuses or promises.

He tried to hold back the smirk, when the head of the FBI's Homicide Investigation Unit eyed him critically and said, "I'm taking a _gamble_ on you, Agent Booth."

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As Dr. Brennan stands, excused from the panel, and walks out briskly, his colleges turn to look at him expectantly.

"He's my agent, my hire – my responsibility." The impromptu disciplinary committee nodded in agreement, while the man farthest to the right took his chance to speak up.

"While Dr. Brennan's testimony is compelling – and 'logically irrefutable'" he paused, using air quotes to emphasis the words used by the frustratingly dry anthropologist, "It seems a bit off – considering his training and his previous record." He pauses, considering his words carefully.

"Only three people know what happened on that roof yesterday – and considering the high profile nature of this case, this issue should be handled internally, quietly. Dr. Brennan's statement has been notarized – in case of any criminal proceedings." The female director added and smiled, "Sam – you own him. You handle this as you see fit, but it is my opinion that there needs to be no further investigation into this."

"Thank you, I'll see to it."

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"Thanks for the ride home," he says quietly, looking out the window shield, head tilted at an awkward angle as he examines the harsh lines of the apartment building. There are dark circles under his eyes that the pale yellow streetlamps only accentuate.

"Are you sure, you'll be ok…" she utters hesitantly, letting it drag off. He eyes her and she can't place what he's trying to communicate. She bites her lip in frustration and admits to herself that she doesn't want to be responsible for this. She doesn't want to be responsible for him. But she was and she knows she'd do anything he asked.

"Do you want to come up – just for some coffee or something?" She nods and opens the door, following him up the stairs. As he fumbles with his keys, she smiles gently and takes them from his hand, deftly opening the door and ushering him in. He doubts that anyone else could be so forgiving.

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_At first she doesn't see him. Her head spins and she throws up her right hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the early morning sun. The fact that she doesn't feel cold tells her that her body is in shock – and she's strangely grateful – it will make the upcoming events easier._

She registers his voice first – menacing and low and somewhere to her right. She's too pumped up on adrenaline to feel foolish for having given Angela her gun a few moments ago – and she boldly approaches, taking care to be silent and slight.

When they come in to view she has enough time to see Howard Epps raise his hands in surrender and her partner smile while removing the safety from his gun.

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"What the hell were you thinking Booth?!" Sam Cullen is furious and for all his charm and finesse, Seely Booth has no clue how talk his way out of this one.

Pacing back and forth, Director Cullen hasn't been this inflamed since he interrogated the man who bought the graft that gave his daughter inoperable cancer.

"The only things keeping you out of jail are Dr. Brennan's testimony and your previous record of conduct." Thinking his words have finally reached the wayward agent, Cullen feels slightly satisfied as Agent Booth's head whips up.

"What did she say?"

"The truth – I hope for both your sakes." He bites out and remorse floods over Booth's face for a brief moment, before the neutral expression sets back in.

"This looks bad – this looks bad for you, for me – for the whole F.B.I. The media is all over this case and the last thing we need are questions into our processes!" He fumes, leaning his hands on his desk and staring straight at his charge. "So I ask once again – what the hell were you thinking?!"

"He presented a threat, sir." Booth says meekly, finding it hard to look his superior in the eye.

"A threat? A threat, Agent Booth?" He yells frantically, marching over the to younger mans seat and leaning down to look him in the face, "You discharged an entire clip on an unarmed man!"

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The coffee has gone cold and she offers to sleep on his couch because she doesn't want to leave him alone.

He tells her not to be ridiculous and takes her mug away, reheating her drink – she cringes because she knows that now it will not only be bitter, but it will also be burnt.

"You're going to drink that, Bones. I want you alert for your drive home," he says sternly, turning on the microwave and shutting the door. She walks over to the kitchen with the intent of at least doctoring her drink as he removes his suit jacket.

"What happened that day?" She turns to him and reaches out, gently touching his shoulder, the blue dress shirt that seemed inappropriate at the funeral early that day now looked wrinkled and dirty. He looks down at her hand and then the microwave beeps. He turns around, forcing the door open.

"You were there Bones, nothing happened – we got our man." It comes out in a dull monotone as he contemplates if he nuked the cup long enough.

"Booth," she says gently, grabbing his arm in an attempt to turn him to face her, "I'm your partner, _please_, let me in." He jerks away and she steps back, a slight look of hurt flashing over her features.

His shoulders heave and he keeps his back to her, "For your own sake, please just drop this Temperance."

"I can't – I won't."

He radiates tension, taking a deep breath, and reaches forward to grab the mug – growling as his hand grasps it and it burns him.

He wheels around and throws it against the wall.

She jumps only slightly, staying silent as she watches the dark brown liquid running down the once pristine wall. He says nothing as she grabs a washcloth and walks over to the shattered mug, carefully picking up the shards of ceramic and placing them in the cloth.

Too tired to fight, he walks to the closet down the hall and pulls out spare bedding, laying three blankets and two pillows on the couch before turning on the shower and closing the door, leaving her to clean up the mess.

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tbc…

I know I promised conclusions, but it just ended up being longer. I have no idea where this is going – hopefully the story will wrap itself up in the next chapter.

Thank you for the reviews! I hope you liked this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Consecrated Ground

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine.

**Author's Note:** This was a difficult section to write – and I feel that it needs a little bit of explaining. I've tried to stay in character, which is difficult – because so much of the Bones/Booth relationship is based on things that aren't said – and I've tried to capture that. I hope that makes sense, and that you enjoy it.

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He couldn't look at her. He stared at her shoulders and makeshift bed, and it was just as bad, because her clothes were rumpled and she looked uncomfortable; propped up awkwardly on one elbow, absently flipping through the pages of an old magazine from the coffee table.

There are a thousand things he wants to tell her – but it's not even an option. He isn't that man; he doesn't know how to be. He has his mother's eyes and his father's hands and he was never good with emotions. Instead he walks up her slowly and kisses her gently on the forehead.

As he walks away he hopes that _that_ will tell her all the things he can't say.

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_Howard Epps is still breathing as his body folds from the first shots._

_She stands perfectly still, frozen in horror; she knew she could have stopped him._

_It's his rattled breath that shocks her into action as she runs over and quickly places one hand over the wounds to his abdomen. He's bleeding too much and she's afraid that if she can't stop it, her partner will be charged with manslaughter._

_Her hand is slick with his blood as she searches out his pulse._

_Booth says nothing; she hears his heavy breathing behind her as he stands, arms limply hanging at his side, his words echoing in her ears._

"_You'll never be able to touch them again."_

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She's pacing outside of his door, cursing her ignorance; situations like these confuse her – she's no good at taking care of others. Clenching a fist and drawing a deep breath, she places her hand on the doorknob and enters without knocking.

A lamp is on, sitting on a nightstand, and he's curled up tightly, eyes open and wide awake. His position disarms her, she always thought he'd be the type to sleep sprawled out, as if he was trying to claim the entire bed as his. He looks at her and quickly moves into a defensive sitting position.

"I know I was angry, I'm still angry," she says quietly, honestly. He nods silently, toying with the edge of the sheet. "You did what you had to…and I," pausing, she bites her lip, "Look at me." The simple command surprises him but he raises his gazes obediently. She surprises him still by taking her hand off of the doorknob and sitting on the edge of his bed. "You're the best man I know."

They're both better with gestures than they are with words, so when she takes his hand and whispers, "Thank you," he knows she's forgiven him, and that she understands.

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tbc?

I have a new chapter written, it's more playful and a lot less angsty – I'm all angst'd out. I had originally wanted to make this a B/B thing but ended up being more friendship based – this is a long winded way of asking if I should continue.

Thanks everyone who commented and made my day!


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